Hamlet. ...Thus conscience does makes cowards of us all,
And thus the native hue of resolution
Is sicklied o'ver with the pale cast of thought,
And enterprises of great pitch and moment
With this regard their currents turn awry
And lose the name of action. Soft you now,
The fair Ophelia! Nymph, in thy orisons
Be all my sins remembered.
Ophelia. Good my lord,
How does your honour for this many a day?
Hamlet. I humbly thank you, well.
Ophelia. My lord, I have remembrances of yours
That I have longed long to redeliver.
I pray you now recieve them.
Hamlet. No, not I.
I never gave you aught.
Ophelia. My honoured lord, you know right well you did,
And with them words of so sweet breath composed
As made the things more rich. Their perfume lost,
Take these again; for to the noble mind
Rich gifts wax poor when givers prove unkind.
There, my lord.